


Moonshine

by pandabomb



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bonding, Childhood Trauma, Cutesy, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Imprinting, Loss of Virginity, Love at First Sight, Pack Dynamics, Romantic Fluff, Slow Romance, Werewolf Culture, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandabomb/pseuds/pandabomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two strangers encroach on Greene pack lands, and Beth's soul mate just happens to be one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ensign_Conners](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ensign_Conners/gifts).



> this story is a commission for the lovely ao3 member Ensign_conners! thank you for commissioning me!
> 
> rated T because the sexual content is not graphic. please enjoy~

In the high heat of Southern summer, the cicadas screech and thrum in hordes. Their song is perpetual, stinging, emanating from the dogwoods and kudzu like a chorus of shrieks among an orchestra of mosquito-hums, frog croaks, and crow-caws.

And as the sun torches its way towards the horizon—making way for the full moon’s ascent—the sound of yips, barks, and howls joins the symphony.

A pair of large, shaggy, yellow-eyed wolves tear through the overgrown shrubbery. One is larger, its colors a mottled grey-brown with a lighter face and muzzle, and its body is supremely powerful, footsteps like thunder over grass and roots. The other, the smaller, is much darker, with a predominately black-brown pelt and a slim, gangly form. Their paws gouge deep prints into the soft dirt as they tear through the forest, fleeing mindlessly, frantically, their teeth snapping at vines and branches that stand in their way.

But in carving their own path, the two wolves create the perfect trail to follow. A pack of eight strong pursues behind them, calling out to one another breathlessly as they follow by scent and sight. The alpha follows head-on, but some others splinter off into flanks, spreading across the forest in a solid line.

The dark wolf stumbles over a raised root; its right leg is damp with blood, gnawed but not broken. Its larger companion clamps powerful jaws onto its dark mane, yanking the faltered wolf up and running in the span of a moment.

Between them, there’s only the sounds of panting and pattering paw-steps; behind them, the pack lopes only as quickly as necessary to keep within sight.

The endurance of two wolves at full speed will never match an entire pack just biding its time. Every wolf knows that—except, perhaps, the reckless.

From the pack’s ranks, a single chaser approaches the fleeing wolves’ wake. A small, skinny, ruddy creature, this emerging wolf is a near-juvenile, the fastest and sprightliest of the pack. As small and young as it is, it must be eager to impress and please: it catches up to the fleeing pair alone, perhaps hoping to drive them towards nearby hills or thicker growth. In its brashness, it even snaps at the larger wolf’s heels, already yipping and growling in apparent victory.

But the large wolf calls its bluff. It turns its massive head, run slowing slightly, and opens its razor-lined jaws wide; in a moment, the hasty wolf—and its newly reddened throat—goes flying, smashing into a tree trunk with a horrific smack. It goes limp and does not stir.

Two trails of blood dot the forest floor then: one from the dark wolf’s front leg, and the other from the larger wolf’s mouth.

The pursuing wolves don’t even pause, leaving their comrade in the dust. To a pack such as this, to fail or become injured is to outlive one’s usefulness.

Soon, however, the flow of rushing traffic drifts into the rhythm of the chase. The humans’ cacophony—and such a fast-moving, lethal one at that—nearly makes the pack falter. But the alpha, a lanky and scarred red wolf, lets loose a long, vicious bark, and its followers pick up the pace.

This final push will expend the rest of their energy—a desperate bid to keep their targets from crossing the interstate divide, where the old pack-lines begin.

The deadly whoosh-burst of passing automobiles is like a metronome, a mortal rhythm: each tick is death, and every silence in between is safety. But the wolves-on-the-run don’t have the luxury of timing their crossing; death follows them, and while a roulette lies in front, at least it has the _smallest_ sliver of a chance for survival.

So when the dark wolf bursts onto the concrete, it does so blindly, muddy claws clicking against heated asphalt. All at once, tires burn and squeal; metal swerves and wobbles; horns blare and stutter into silence—and a massive eighteen-wheeler smashes onto its side, gliding onto the grassy roadside in a screeching mess of steel and rubble.

With barely a hitch in their steps, the fleeing pair disappears into the forest, safe on the other side. The heat of fresh flames just barely licks at their heaving backs.

Back from where they came, seven pairs of bright, unblinking eyes slink back into the thick, shadowy undergrowth.

~|~

Beth eases the first clean bedsheet off the clothesline. Carefully, she pulls the bottom half of it out then up, catching hold of the top before it falls and folding the entire sheet cleanly in both hands.

“Carl, you watching?” She says slowly, throwing a testy glance to the side. In response, Carl growls gently under his breath. He doesn’t really seem to be doing much other than sunbathing. “You can fold the twin sheets yourself easily. But it’s trickier with the full- and king-sized.”

Carl let loose another lazy grunt. His fur is rather dark—brown with gray undertones—but his belly is pale like cream; Beth sees it as he rolls over petulantly, sticking his overgrown puppy paws up in the air with a bored, sluggish wiggle.

“You better pay attention,” she says. She tries to huff, but can only muster an amused sigh. It’s difficult to be angry at anyone who’s so blatantly ridiculous. “That you’ve even managed to avoid learning this stuff for so long is—well, I’m not sure if it’s impressive or embarrassing, honestly.”

A small bark tells her that Carl is not at all embarrassed.

In only a second, Beth allows her lycanthian eyes to turn, pale irises overtaking the whites in a flash. Their wolf-eyes are the easiest to reveal and the hardest to hide; it usually takes children years to master their ability over them, especially when emotional or startled. A meaningful display of wolf-eyes takes high control and maturity—making it a sign of authority.

With her dark, stark eyes, Beth commands: “Switch back.”

And Carl turns in the next moment, pelt receding to his pale, gangly, nude human form. He rolls to a sitting position, legs crossed. “It’s not like there’s anything _to_ this stuff,” he groans out. His grubby fingers itch at his dark hair before mussing it down reflexively. “It’s not like—tracking, or something. I know how to fold a sheet, Beth.”

“Exactly,” she replies with a smile. “And you can’t do it with paws. So stand up and help me.”

Carl groans his displeasure, but again, obeys without hesitation.

After the sheets have all been folded up and laid into the hamper, Beth begins tugging clothes down—starting with a pair of pants and a shirt for Carl. A quick toss has the clothes hitting Carl’s bare chest with a _whump_. “Cover up; the bugs are gonna eat you alive.”

The sun is nearing a set, sky rose-pink and blazing. Already, the mosquitos buzz ominously above their heads, looking for a nice juicy perch; further out, the cicadas sing in throngs, and the light hum of the distant interstate is only distinct if they strain their ears.

Before they can finish their chore, however—or Carl can put on some clothes—a small yip resounds from the nearby treeline, tentative yet challenging. Both Beth and Carl snap their heads towards the sound’s cause, immediately on high alert. “Carl, don’t you dare,” Beth says lowly, never taking her eyes off the source of the yip, just a few feet into the forest. “You’ve gotta help me bring in the— _Carl!”_

But it’s too late—he’s off bounding, two legs rippling into four as his arms hit the grass.

He collides with the other wolf in seconds.

He tries to be gentle though. Andre is only five, after all.

A brief scuffle ensues, both pups growling and rolling playfully. After a few moments of letting Andre believe he’s got a chance, Carl snatches him up in his mouth, letting his brother dangle from the plentiful scruff on the back of his neck. If they were true wolves, both brothers would be roughly the same size by now; but their human side keeps growth rates slow, preserving the delightful ball-of-fluff stage for years at a time.

Carl—who practically grew out of being a fluffball just yesterday—seems to _love_ Andre’s continued puppyhood, acting as though his eight-year head-start into adulthood is some kind of well-earned victory. But hitting puberty is hard enough as it is; if Carl wants to be proud of it, Beth figures that’s a better reaction than the opposite.

At the sight of Andre’s tiny, flailing, pudgy puppy body, Beth can’t resist a chuckle. She sets down the hamper to reach for him, tugging him from Carl’s teeth easily. “Trade you,” she says, abandoning the hamper in favor of propping the puppy upright against her waist. Fully grown, their wolf forms are only slightly bigger than their human ones; even as puppies, the size is similar. Propped up as he is, Andre can effortlessly reach her face—so he does, licking her chin once in greeting.

This time, Carl doesn’t bother to groan about being ordered around. He changes again, yanks some clothes on swiftly, and hoists the full hamper up in both gangly arms.

By then, the sky is fully red, dusk blooming against the oncoming rainclouds like soaked watercolor. Far-off lightning flashes in spurts; much closer, the drone of a howl reaches their ears sweetly, the first nighttime patrol telling of calm and return. From that single howl, Beth can tell: her father, the alpha, must have finally returned.

“Come on,” she says, nudging her head towards the back of the house, just up the slope. Carl follows without a word, and in her arms, Andre wriggles slightly, struggling to fit his tiny, fuzzy chin over Beth’s shoulder.

They go to greet Beth’s father at the driveway. By then, some other packmates have already emerged from the house to help him unload groceries—enough to fill the trunk, backseat, _and_ the front passenger seat—and Carl immediately joins them, probably eager to find his favorite snacks among the brown-bags. Dad looks well, animated and cheerful even as he describes the horrendous traffic on the interstate, and both Rick and Maggie stand with him, listening to their alpha intently.

Out of the corner of her eye, Beth notices that Glenn is one of the people helping to unload the car. He and Maggie have been married for almost six months now—imprinted straightaway when Glenn came to visit as Rick’s guest—and while he’s still fairly new, Maggie is the unanimously accepted heir to their father’s position in the pack. It wouldn’t be odd for Glenn to be included among the alpha’s immediate advisors, like Rick and Michonne already are.

If Beth had to guess, she’d assume Glenn is trying to allow things to develop slowly, in their own time. After all, it was only Maggie’s insistence that had led to his inclusion in the pack in the first place. But he’s a bright man, and Beth knows he has valuable contributions; in some years, Glenn will be the alpha’s mate anyway, so it would be best for him to get used to the authority as fast as he can.

At this point in time, his continued caution around the alpha is shooting right past respectfulness and into comical. Nobody treats him like an outsider anymore except himself. Even Beth’s father had hardly treated him as a newcomer; there’s probably no alpha as peace-loving and stubbornly optimistic as Hershel Greene. And while Beth is proud of that, she isn’t naïve—the success of their pack comes from her father’s wisdom _and_ their pack’s more ruthless members.

She fears for the poor souls who cross Maggie, Shane, or Michonne.

(Perhaps Michonne most of all—but only because Beth has encountered her fighting style in training sessions many times before.)

With his head still perched over Beth’s shoulder, Andre spots his mother as she walks out onto the porch. His fussy, restless wriggling begins again in earnest.

“Hey there, baby,” Michonne says, with laughter in her voice and a grin on her face. She slides her shawl off her shoulders as Andre shifts in Beth’s arms; arms outstretched, she takes him from Beth gently, wrapping him in the shawl to cover his naked skin from the bugs and muggy evening air. “All right, hold on; don’t wanna drop you—”

“Mama, I was a tracker today!”

“That so? What did you find?” All at once, Michonne gives him an investigatory sniff and drops a kiss on the top of his head. “Doesn’t smell like you found another skunk, thank God.”

“No! I smelled wolves.” His mother stiffens at his words, expression instantly hardening. “I smelled them on the wind. Lots!”

As though on cue, the second dusk patrol rings out—high-pitched, sharp, almost frantic. Beth recognizes the first howl as Shane; the second, only moments later, is Lori. From only those short howls, they all know: two intruders, one wounded, on the southwest boundary.

Beth’s father looks towards the boundary, a distant, scrutinizing look in his eye. “Rick, Michonne, Glenn, go. Maggie, stay.”

“If Glenn is going—”

“You’re still on cooking duty tonight,” Hershel interrupts, a pleasant smile on his face. “Have you even started dinner?”

Maggie’s expression turns red and pained. Beth can tell she is seriously debating disobeying. But this must be a test—as the future alpha, Maggie needs to know how to keep a clear head, even if she and Glenn aren’t glued to the side. It’s easy to let imprinting turn into obsession; it’s the responsibility of the pack to make sure that doesn’t happen.

Michonne prepares to head out with the group, handing Andre back to Beth and shedding her dress to the porch floor without preamble. At the sudden tension in the air, Andre sticks his knuckles into his mouth—a nervous habit—before Beth can nudge it away only a moment later.

Down the porch, Glenn flashes his wife a quick, reassuring smile before he shifts. Maggie doesn’t react—just stands stock-still, hands curled to fists and wolf-eyes shining in apparent distress. Seeing her sister in such desperation, Beth’s chest aches in a sluggish, gray sorrow.

“Maggie,” Beth calls out, propping Andre up on her hip in a single hoist. “I can—can I help you with dinner?”

Even from afar, Beth can see Maggie’s jaw is clenched tightly. She watches her husband run into the forest until he’s no longer visible.

“Yeah,” she finally responds, tone vacant and distant as she still faces the forest. “That’d be a big help.”

Their father starts towards the house before Maggie does, his steps strong and steady even as his hands are growing wrinkled. He tosses the words over his shoulder, for Maggie to hear: “Please tell me it’s chili. That’s the only thing you can make that’s _edible_.”

Finally, after what seems like eternity, Maggie tears her attention away from the empty treeline. “I’m getting better,” she says, tone tentatively relaxed and playful. “With Beth to help, I can probably put a few chickens in the oven without burning everything down.”

When she reaches Beth’s side on the porch, Maggie stands still again, as though her every step is an agonizing effort. Beth smiles and bumps her sister’s side in what she hopes is a comforting gesture.

At her hip, Andre whispers a plea: “Just make the chili.”

Finally, the snipe seems to bring some life back into her. Maggie grabs him under the armpits, raising Andre high above her shoulders. “Are you sassing your elder?” She asks with a mock-roar; Andre just giggles and flails, propping his arms out as though in flight.

Beth opens the door and holds it open for them. Maggie walks inside, Andre wrapped securely in her arms and only a single last fleeting glance behind.

~|~

Once they’ve run past the crackle of the interstate fire, into the hush and bustle of the dimming forest, Daryl changes form.

In his human form, he no longer limps, and the wound on his front leg becomes a mangled and bloody arm. Merle trots at his side, his head high and kept on a swivel, eyes shrewd and nostrils flaring. Until they’re sure of their safety, Merle will not risk danger in a weaker and slower form; even for a tall man, Merle’s wolf form is atypically massive and imposing, easily reaching Daryl’s waist. But Merle has always been bigger, more ruthless, and more commanding—for his own benefit, as well as Daryl’s—and that brutality _did_ save them in the chase.

Which is _rich_ , because it sure as hell hadn’t done them any good before that. Merle’s aggression and inability to _shut the hell up_ was what invoked the rogue alpha’s wrath in the first place.

Now, with three dead ex-pack mates behind them and the continued fury of a rogue alpha on their backs, they enter unknown territory. Crossing over the border of this new pack’s territory feels like stepping over a line of gunpowder.

Merle, true to form, doesn’t seem worried in the slightest. Daryl wouldn’t even be surprised if he pissed on the border for fun.

At Daryl’s right, Merle eyes his wound sneeringly, as though disappointed in its very existence. It smarts just viciously enough to spoil Daryl’s patience.

“Got this covering _your_ fuckin’ back,” he hisses, sending his brother a pointed glare. Merle doesn’t need to say anything in response—from a young age they’d perfected nonverbal conveyance—and Daryl can _sense_ his annoyance, as well as his reservation about Daryl’s choice to shed his wolf form in new land. Daryl responds: “Well I’m fuckin’ _tired_ of limping, all right? And whether I’m on all-fours or naked, anyone can tell I’m banged up; not much use for a fight either way.”

Merle looks away, complying with Daryl’s form-change without further scorn. It’s true that in this form, at least, Daryl will be able to run unmarred.

Perhaps if they were younger, Daryl would be angrier at his brother’s actions—also described as a _major fuck-up_. But this is the way it’s always been: two brothers raised by a vicious father; two brothers running from one cruel alpha to the next. As children, werewolves are too unstable to blend within human populations, and they need adults to protect them from human hunters. But not everyone is afforded the privilege of a stable, secure pack—Merle and Daryl sure as hell weren’t.

So rogue packs have to fill that gap. But those ragtag groups are protection and danger all wrapped in one nasty package: basket-cases, orphans, and pariahs of all sorts bound together in an informal alliance. Betrayal in such a setting can hardly be called as such, since almost nobody in a rogue pack has blood-ties, mate-ties, or much of an allegiance to start with; assault, coups, and murder are all relatively common. It’s a constant battle for power among those with nothing more to lose.

That said, it still beats running solo. Human hunters can kill werewolves so long as they don’t yield a human corpse, so wolf forms are fair game. Some shoot for sport, others for some kind of uppity, bloodthirsty, anti-abomination mindset; but it’s not like it matters in the end.

And even if they’re shot in human form, there’d hardly be any serious repercussions anyway. According to all incarnations of human authority—including the government and modern science—half-human creatures simply don’t even exist.

Authority doesn’t like to be wrong, and corpses are easy to hide.

So for their entire lives, the Dixon brothers have lived in a kind of limbo—wolf society has no place for them; human society won’t even give them birth certificates. But they make do.

They have no choice.

And now, they try their hand at appealing to an established pack. If it were so easy to be accepted into one, they would have done so long ago, but there are plenty of factors that go into the dynamics of such an attempt. First, there’s the simple matter of population—some packs simply cannot feed or house any more than they already have. Living among humanity means finding humility; smaller is better, lesser is safety.

Secondly, and most importantly of all, there’s the matter of the brothers’ background: they may be strong, but they’re total wildcards. To a wise alpha, one rogue is untrustworthy enough. Two of them at once—and two who are so obviously loyal to one another already—can easily be the wrecking ball to a stable pack dynamic. Most packs are related through blood and adoption; maybe if they’d fled to a pack as pups, they would have been accepted without trouble, but not anymore. Now, they’re nothing but potential usurpers, strangers who are owed nothing—not even their lives.

So it’s definite they will be rejected. Viciously. They’ve probably been detected already, and there’s basically no point in asking for a single thing; Daryl just hopes they’ll be allowed to pass through unharmed. Maybe if they’re lucky, his wound and nakedness will convince them that they’re no real threat.

Or maybe, if they’re _extremely_ lucky, they’ll be permitted to lay their heads down in the dirt for the night.

God knows it’s barely what they deserve.

Even so, Daryl is still shocked into stillness when, only a few yards into the pack’s territory, Merle is bowled over by a black-pelted wolf with ruthless dark eyes and flashing white fangs. No matter Merle’s martial prowess, this dark wolf fights like a demon: within moments, its blown the air from his lungs, wrangled him into the dirt, and corralled his throat between powerful jaws, canine teeth hovering promisingly over his throat.

And Daryl is still wounded, and naked—useless. He can see the wolf’s packmembers circling in the forest, tightening their formation until there’s no possibility of escape.

Slowly, he raises his arms, showing no ill-will and displaying his wound prominently. “We don’t want no trouble,” he says, keeping the flinch from his voice. “We were forced in—rogues beyond the interstate.”

Another wolf, smaller than its black-pelted packmember—built for speed, agility; fur so mingled with silver and black as to seem metallic—approaches Daryl slowly, its every footstep purposeful. Once closer, it sniffs the air, perhaps looking for evidence or treachery.

Daryl holds its eye for only a moment before glancing down to the ground. If he’s learned anything from Merle, it’s that foolhardy confidence is rarely worth it.

“We ask for passage. Nothing more.”

His voice is mulled, so quiet as to be slurred—but it does not tremble.

The wolf sniffs again, huffs, and then snorts. Daryl glances up just quickly enough to see it jerk its head to the side—beckoning him to follow.

~|~

Beth’s packmates return so quickly, it’s still dimly light outside, and the ingredients for the chili have barely even been chopped and put to pot. And that’s saying a lot—because for all Maggie is a slipshod cook, she’s quite handy with a knife.

Beth has flour on her cheek and cornbread dough on her hands. Her hair is pulled back into a messy half-bun, blonde curls just barely wrangled into something manageable enough to keep stray hairs from falling into the food. Her sister looks a little better, though there was a brief scare in which Beth stopped her from rubbing jalapeno residue into her eye. But still—upon their packmates’ approach towards the porch, both sisters emerge from the kitchen looking like ragged soldiers in a battlefield of butter and cast-iron.

There are two strangers in their midst. One of them is in wolf form, its every movement bullied forward by Michonne’s formidable will; there must be another, since the guard said so, but Beth doesn’t see them yet.

Something has her preoccupied—a scent on the wind, odd and alluring. It seems familiar, yet also not, like a coil of nostalgia dancing on the air: her mother’s songs, her favorite foods, an undertone of honeysuckle and sweet nightshade blossoms; all at once comforting and dangerous. It distracts her so thoroughly that her eyes are distant and unfocused, even as her packmates approach with strangers—the possibility of a threat.

The alpha has not come to the porch. This is a sign of trust and confidence; he thinks so lowly of the strangers, perhaps, that he is willing to let his supporters handle them.

Or, more likely, he’s decided to test Maggie once again with a very real trial of leadership.

“Welcome, strangers,” she says, head held high and tone solid. Beth registers her poise out of the corner of her eye, but looks at the porch and the treeline indistinctly, her every sense attuned to that strange smell. It seems to exist all around her, unfixed to one single place or thing. “This is Greene land, and I’m the heir apparent. Show us your face.”

Distantly, the strange wolf scowls—but he doesn’t revolt, somehow managing to slide into his human form in a sulky manner.

As though in a trance, Beth turns her head to see him. He’s tall, broad, and slightly tanned, red-splotched face in a permanent sneer of challenge.

“Where do you hail?” Maggie asks.

“Nowhere,” the big man says, nude and imposing.

“Name?”

“Dixon,” the man mutters—and spits, as though ridding himself of a bad taste.

In the next moment, Maggie turns her head to look at the second guest. Beth follows her gaze, everything seeming as though underwater, and that’s when she notices: the second stranger is watching her, _has_ been watching her, and is absolutely unmoving.

He’s not even _breathing_.

All Beth can think in the next moments—her own breath caught, her own gaze fixed, frozen, time seeming to halt and restart millions of times in the width of a blink—is:

_Oh. It’s him._

And then he runs.

~|~

When he first saw her, nothing else existed anymore.

It was like his lungs went from hollow and useless to finally _full_ , stuffed to the brim with fresh air and purpose. He didn’t remember his troubles, his insecurities; he didn’t remember _himself_ , because in a single moment, a lifetime of wandering and directionless misery all whittled down to _her_ , to everything that led to her, and to everything he could have with her—making her happy, secure, stable, content.

Until she looked back—and he remembered exactly who he was.

So he fled.

 _Of course_ , he thinks, _of course she’s beautiful—of course she’s **perfect** —_

The forest undergrowth snaps and breaks under his feet. But even if the trees buckled and collapsed around him, he wouldn’t take any notice, because everything is a mess anyway: he’s nude, injured, suddenly in absolute and horrifying rapture, and this isn’t supposed to happen to _him_ , of all people; billions in the world deserve better than this. He has no right even be in her _presence_ let alone standing by her side—

“Wait!”

Daryl swears under his breath, increases his speed, and fights the urge to fall to his knees. He’s utterly destroyed just by the sound of her voice.

“Don’t you _dare_ run from me!”

He grits his teeth against an utter _sob_ , totally and terrifyingly captivated. _Of course she’s a fighter._

“I just found you and now— _why are you_ —?”

Her tone seems hurt, taken aback, and the thought crosses Daryl’s mind that she could believe he thinks she’s not _good enough_ —and the prospect of it is so upsetting, so startlingly awful, that he slips into his emotionally-dulled wolf state immediately, desperate to quiet the screaming complexity of his thoughts.

But his wolf form is just as injured as his human one, if not more so—and apparently, the girl who’s carved her name on his bones with a single glance isn’t the type to give up a chase.

One moment Daryl is scrambling over a fallen log, and the next, he’s slammed into the ground by a pair of dainty paws. His soul mate has a beautiful wolf form—not that Daryl is biased—with a sandy-gold pelt, dark blue eyes, and vivid white fangs, her form built for stamina and stealth rather than strength. Daryl takes in the sight of her quietly, without struggle, glancing at each and every tooth she’s exposed in a _gorgeous_ growl of frustration.

Once Daryl is no longer trying to escape, she eases back into her human form to speak. Her nudity is gorgeous as well, body slim yet firm. Though it’s obvious that she’s trained herself into being strong and formidable, she’s still soft, unmarred by true hardship or even a single callus—and that, like the rest of her, digs barbs into Daryl’s chest and _twists_.

“Why did you run?” She asks him, voice cracking only the slightest bit through her exasperation.

At first, Daryl doesn’t respond. He keeps to his wolf form like a cloak, hidden and silenced.

With a few moments of only eye contact, not a single word spoken between them, the girl seems to crumple a bit, backing off Daryl’s form to sit in an insecure curl on the forest floor. She says, tone soft and shattered: “Is it just me, then?”

Wolf form or not, that’s enough to nearly make Daryl _sick_. He shifts, rolls into a cross-legged sit, and cradles the elbow of his injured arm in his opposite hand.

“How old are you?” He asks—because she’s beautiful, and she seems grown, but something about her is too new.

Her eyes are wide as she responds: “Eighteen.”

Daryl brings his legs and hands up, pressing his knuckles hard into his forehead. _Eighteen_ —practically a baby.

“What’s your name?” The girl asks.

Slowly, Daryl drops his hands. They hit his thighs limply, hands open, as though in surrender. He mumbles: “My name’s Daryl.”

The girl smiles, and her face is so gentle and sweet, Daryl squints into a grimace. “My name’s Beth.”

The next moments are filled with silence, the chirping of birds, and the descending darkness of passed dusk. When it becomes apparent that Daryl won’t be the first to act or speak, Beth rocks onto her knees and moves forward, coming just close enough to lift a palm onto the side of Daryl’s cheek.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?”

Under Beth’s hand, Daryl’s jaw jolts in a clench. “Yeah,” he whispers, and nods. “Yeah, I am.”

~|~

Beth’s soul mate is a strange, quiet man.

It takes coaxing to get him to stand. Even once he’s up on his feet, he won’t speak unless forced, or look Beth in the eye; in order to get him to pick up his feet, dragging and seemingly hopeless as he is, Beth has to remind him that his companion is still at the house, and it’s for the best they both return there.

She takes his hand, and he doesn’t pull away—but he doesn’t squeeze back.

When Maggie found Glenn, they’d been inseparable for weeks. Daryl’s silence and hesitation sends a bitter pit into Beth’s stomach.

Back at the house, Beth’s father greets them with a few packmembers and some clothing. Beth lets go of Daryl’s hand to slip a loose dress over her head, and in the back of her mind, a deep insecurity takes root—a fear that once she lets go, Daryl will bolt off running again. The moment they’re clothed, she grabs him again, his fingers warm yet limp against her palm.

“So,” her father says, seeming more chagrined than either suspicious or pleased. “You’re the wolf who’s imprinted on my Beth?”

Daryl nods and watches the ground.

After a moment of watching Daryl’s face, Hershel sighs and shakes his head, then sends Beth an affectionate look. “Well,” he says, “come on inside. We’re having dinner.”

And that’s all that can be done, Beth supposes.

But as her father turns to go to the house, Daryl frowns. His voice is soft and almost hopeless as he says: “Your daddy’s the alpha.”

For a moment, Beth is so scrambled by him—his voice, his gentleness—that she cannot respond. It takes a little time to compose herself. “Yeah,” she finally says, and squeezes his hand again. “I’m the secondborn. Or, well—I am now. Shawn died years ago, in the last pack war.”

Again, Daryl nods. Something about him seems almost mechanical, as though he’s trying to remember how to exist; but beneath that, there’s an aura of softness in his face, and in the way his expression has dropped into an open, timid frown. “Are we—I’m going in there?”

Beth looks to the house, towards the sounds of dinnertime, laughter, and family.

“Yeah,” she says. “Unless you’re nervous; then—”

The way Daryl’s face changes with those words—the implication that he’s scared, or bothered, or having any kind of emotional disturbance whatsoever—causes Beth to nearly reel back in shock. In a split second, all his softness dissolves, and his face sets into a concrete-clad display of bitter bravado.

“No,” he says, and starts walking up the porch. Again, he doesn’t shake off Beth’s hand—but he doesn’t seem to pay it any attention, as though she can do whatever she pleases, and he’ll do the same.

“Wait, Daryl—”

“S’fine,” he tosses back, bare feet slapping up the porch steps one by one.

“ _Wait_.” She halts him with a harsh tug to his fingers. “I wanna go on a walk.”

“A walk.”

“Yeah—a walk. With you.”

He looks from the house to Beth, then repeats the entire motion again. His stubbornly stoic face seems to be edging towards annoyance—perhaps because he can’t figure out if he should fight this or not, considering he obviously doesn’t want to face Beth’s family in the first place.

Beth sighs, tweaks her mouth sideways in thought—and decides to try bringing out the big guns.

“Come on,” she says in a sweet hush, walking forward only enough to take Daryl’s other hand. “I don’t wanna share you just yet. Just—indulge me? Please?”

She’s seen both Glenn and Maggie deploy this kind of behavior in order to get their way. It worked every time.

The moment Daryl huffs and looks away—which is _instantly_ —Beth knows she’s won. “Fine,” he says, and starts to stomp away. He tugs her hand along for a few steps before grinding out: “Where the hell are we going anyway.”

Beth trots a bit to reach his side, then readjusts their hands to weave their fingers together. She grins radiantly. “Let me show you the farm.”

~|~

Daryl’s soul mate is a bright, inquisitive girl.

It’s…difficult, to say the least.

“We don’t have many fruit-bearing trees,” she says, talking almost nonstop. It seems as though she’s determined to bare her entire existence to Daryl within the first day of their meeting. As she speaks, Daryl watches her reach for a just-unripe fruit, hand pale and slender in the moonlight. “But the trees we do have are apple, peach, persimmon, and pecan. In a week or two, we’ll strip the peach tree and make jam, pies, and just about everything with ‘em, canning whatever we can’t eat when they’re fresh—”

She stops when she notices how Daryl is watching her, gaze unwavering and focused. Her face swarms with red, and delicate fingers move up to scratch at her blushing cheek.

“What’s your favorite?” She asks, quiet and sincere.

Daryl is so fascinated by the color playing on her face, he barely registers the question. “What?”

“Your—what’s your favorite fruit?”

At first, Daryl can’t think of an answer. Not only has he never been asked, but he’s never considered it. Any food is good food when you’re hungry.

Beth goes even redder at his silence. She whispers: “Please, can you—I feel silly, going on like this. I want to know about you.”

“Anything I can get.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my favorite. Anything I can get.”

“Oh,” she says, and smiles delightedly. “That’s—that’s good. Not picky; I like that.”

Then it’s Daryl’s turn to blush, which is just _ridiculous_ , because it makes him look like a sunburnt oaf. He quickly turns and walks a few steps away, looking off to—well, anywhere. “Let’s keep walking,” he says. He doesn’t reach out his hand, but waits until Beth comes to his uninjured left side and takes it.

“If I make you a pie, will you have a piece?”

“Whole damn thing.”

Beth laughs, then changes the topic, avoiding looking at Daryl’s enflamed face a little too carefully. She walks with him towards the crop plots, their footsteps careful not to tread on any growth, illuminated only by moonlight.

The Greene farm is mostly dedicated to staple foods, corn and wheat in particular. For a little operation, they have a lot of side-jobs: beekeeping, jams and canning, and livestock among them. Most packs subsist on hunting and scavenging alone; claiming territory is rather easy, but actually owning property the legal way is another story completely, and most either can’t afford it or aren’t fluent enough in human laws and regulations to navigate the process. Out of all the packs Daryl has encountered, this is the first one he’s met to not only cultivate their own land, but to take their crop to human market.

As Beth explains it all, Daryl follows along, yet he notices between them a gap of knowledge miles-wide.

This is a girl who hasn’t been raised to survive—she’s been raised to thrive.

“Of course, Maggie and I were homeschooled from the start,” she says, and Daryl doesn’t respond or even move too fast, because there’s nothing _of course_ about that. “She got the whole rounded education, from human law to daily training and fighting. She’ll be alpha, so she’s gotta know it all. But I’m only the second child, so I focused more on finances and money-handling, real domestic stuff. I’ve done so many times-tables by now I could probably recite them backwards and scrambled.”

Daryl’s the second child, and the most prominent lesson of his childhood was how to down a deer without getting kicked in the face.

Beth watches him as they walk along the lush farm plots, tilting her head and swinging their hands slightly. This is an aspect of her Daryl will likely never get accustomed to: this way she has of watching his face, as impassive and shuttered as it is, and _seeing_ far more than Daryl would ever willingly give.

“So. How’d you get here?” She asks—a topic he can obviously participate in, and a question he can readily answer. Daryl breathes in deeply, exhaling through his nostrils in a quiet huff; while he doesn’t like volunteering information—especially things he can’t take pride in—it makes her happy, so he puts aside his reservations.

“Merle and me, we aren’t—we don’t have a pack like yours. We never have. So we were staying with a rogue pack for awhile…’til Merle got cocky.”

“Does he do that a lot?”

At Beth’s wry tone, Daryl turns to look at her, startled—but she looks just as pleasant as ever, pretty face grinning and politely inquisitive. Still, Daryl answers slowly, and takes the foolhardy risk of admitting honesty.

“…Yeah. He does.”

Beth nods. “Good to know, I suppose. He’s staying with us, isn’t he?”

Daryl doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t even dared to _hope_ for that.

“He _is_ your brother,” Beth continues. “You’re mine, and he’s yours. So he’s staying.”

She says it so certainly, with such easy conviction, that Daryl cracks a subdued smile. “You’re used to gettin’ your way, aren’t you?”

“What?” Beth asks, taken aback—and splutters even more as Daryl drags her into a hug. “What—oh. Oh, you’re happy.”

Again, Daryl doesn’t respond. Hugging Beth is—indescribable, really; makes him wonder why the _hell_ he hasn’t tried it before. Beth loops her arms around his torso tightly, as if she plans to never let go, and pats his back a few times, hard enough to thump his spine audibly.

She giggles under her breath, saying: “And you’re relieved, too—did you really think we weren’t gonna let your brother stay? That’s too cruel!”

“Shit’s cruel.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be. _We’re_ not.”

“Mhm.”

Beth rubs her cheek against Daryl’s chest, smiling, and Daryl’s never seen anyone so beautiful look so happy. But in the next moment, she takes one hand from his back to frame the air around his injured arm, and her smile fades into gloomy concern.

“And how’d you get hurt?”

“Told you,” Daryl says, breaking the hug to shift his arm away from her. “Merle got cocky. Rogue pack drove us out.”

“They didn’t _just_ drive you out,” Beth prods. “They tried to kill you. And they got pretty close. So either Merle’s _really_ cocky, or rogue packs don’t take any shit, huh?”

Daryl’s silence is as good as confirmation, on both counts. Beth pouts and huffs, grabbing his hand to stomp forward again.

“Well, you can’t do anything dangerous anymore. You’ve got me now, and I don’t do well with danger.”

“I bet not.”

“ _Hey now_ —I’m perfectly capable of fighting, and protecting myself; but—I don’t like it.” She veered them back towards the house, footsteps solid and stomping. “I like peace. I like safety. And—you know what, I bet they set out some leftovers for us; let’s go eat.”

Daryl follows her soundlessly, content just to listen to the sound of her voice and the thrum of her heartbeat.

~|~

On the kitchen table, there’s two bowls of chili covered in plastic wrap and a plate of cornbread. Beth pops them in the microwave for a little bit before they dig in, and Daryl looks at the appliance like it’s a box of mysteries with demonic intent, brow crinkled and eyes subtly shrewd.

It’s yet another thing Beth doesn’t acknowledge, but tucks away in her memory—another detail about her soulmate to understand, recognize, and consider.

Even as Daryl eats, he seems to not taste a thing; he spoons food into his mouth steadily, industrially, as though _enjoyment_ of the process is secondary to just getting it done. When he notices Beth watching him, he slows down a bit, but otherwise there’s no change.

“I want to sleep in the same place as you,” Beth admits. At that, Daryl’s hand stutters in its movements, but resumes briskly enough. “I’ve got my own room. And a full-sized bed. We don’t—nothing has to _happen_ —” If it was possible to blush so strongly you glow in the dark, both of them would be lanterns—“But I don’t want to be separated from you. Ever. But especially now.”

As Daryl opens his mouth to answer—Beth is surprised; she’d expected him to just abandon speaking altogether in favor of awkward, jilted head-jerks—a voice from the doorway snatches both of their attention.

“Am I interrupting anything?” Merle asks, obviously aware that he is, indeed, interrupting.

Daryl closes his mouth and grinds the teeth of one side. His brother approaches the table slowly, with a kind of strangely forced casualness; Beth tracks his movements, surprised to find herself on guard. Both Dixon brothers have rather strong, backwoods-reminiscent accents, and perhaps a more naïve or prejudiced individual would underestimate that—but Beth will not. Merle seems, at best, sly, unpredictable, and ruthless.

For all she’s imprinted on Daryl, and trusts him with her life, his brother is a different story completely.

Merle comes to stand next to where she’s sitting, jutting a hand out near Beth’s eye level. “Nice to meet you, young lady. I’m Merle. Guess I’m your brother-in-law now.”

“Beth,” she says, taking his hand and shaking it properly. “And I guess you are.”

With a perked, slick smile, Merle lets his hand linger for a second before dropping it and turning to face his brother. He points a thumb at Beth’s head and said: “Good job on this one, Daryl. Her family didn’t even blink to have me at the dinner table. I took seconds. Then thirds.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed dinner,” Beth says, because she’ll be dead before she lets some strange newcomer talk over her head. And, because she was raised right, she goes on: “Is there anything else you need?”

Merle’s smooth smile is stuck like concrete. “Yeah, now that you mention it—I heard what you said to my brother a moment ago, and—”

“Merle.”

“—Well, I just don’t think it’s fair.”

“ _Merle_.”

“So I’d like my own pretty wolf to share a bed with; maybe that wolf who downed me in the forest, or your sister—”

Beth can’t even blink twice before Daryl is up, forward, and punching his brother square across the jaw.

It’s mean, but Beth thinks: _Well. That’s an efficient way to handle it._

And it probably says a lot about her current state of mind that Daryl, huffing in rage and clenching his hands in fists, lights a fire so deep in Beth’s stomach she practically squirms in her seat.

“Apologize,” Daryl growls out—and literally _growls_ —while his brother sits on the floor, stunned and cupping his already-swollen jaw. Merle looks up at him for a moment or two, as though he’s assessing his brother’s seriousness before he decides on a response.

“…All right,” he finally slurs out. He rolls his eyes to look at Beth, who’s still sitting in her same exact spot. “Excuse me, miss.”

Beth nods once, slowly. “You’re excused. So long as you don’t do it again.”

Merle chuckles a bit under his breath. He seems utterly disbelieving; Beth supposes it’s been awhile since Daryl has lashed out at him like this.

“Well then,” he says, propping himself up on the ground before standing in full. “I’ll be going to the guest bed. Alone.”

“Good night,” Beth chirps lightly, and gives him a polite little wave as he goes. “Sleep well.”

Once they’re alone again, Daryl looks embarrassed.

Beth raises her eyebrows and huffs out a single laugh. “That was exciting.”

“I’m sorry,” Daryl mumbles.

“What for? Merle already apologized.”

“No, for—” Daryl grits his teeth again, eyes glancing sidelong and tense. “You don’t like violence.”

“Oh,” Beth says—and can’t say anything else, quite yet, because she’s pathetically overwhelmed by affection. “No, I mean—yeah, you’re right. But it’s one thing to go out looking for a brawl, and another to let people disrespect you. You stood up for me. Thank you.”

Daryl still won’t look at her, but he does nod. Beth grins and reaches across the table for his hand—the one with the flushed red knuckles.

“Will you stay with me tonight?”

Again, Daryl nods.

They clear and rinse their plates before leaving the kitchen together.

~|~

Beth turns the light on in her bedroom, and Daryl is immediately accosted by white lace and pastel colors. He could have guessed that she’d be a tea-and-cake kind of girl—other than the lycanthropy and eating-raw-venison side, of course—but it’s still disorienting. Standing in her doorway, he feels more like a smear of unsightly dirt on the off-white carpet than a guest.

Without a word, Beth goes to the window and cranks it open, letting in the muggy night air. The sounds of cicadas and distant traffic help Daryl feel grounded—like he’s in _real life_ , in all its messy and imperfect glory, instead of trapped in a pure girl’s spotless domain.

While there’s nothing wrong with the latter, the former is a lot less easy to ruin.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Beth says, hushed and seemingly unaware that she’s asking the impossible.

As Beth goes into her drawers to grab pajamas—Daryl sees her rifle through frilly pink nightgowns before settling on a plain, color-coordinated, matching t-shirt and drawstring pants set—Daryl keeps standing in the doorway. He shifts from foot to foot.

“Something the matter?” Beth asks. Something about her tone implies that she could guess what’s the matter, but she won’t—she’s giving Daryl the chance to voice his discomfort willingly.

“I’m not…clean,” he says, and tilts his head at the almost-healed wound on his arm.

“Oh, of course,” Beth replies, smiling gently. “I’ll show you the bathroom.”

She does. It’s spotless too, but neutral and spartan, not frilly. She shares this bathroom with a few other rooms on the hall.

“Towels in the cupboard there,” she says, still hushed and subdued. Werewolf hearing is sharp, but communal living teaches most of them to filter out calm, familiar noises; Beth’s tone is measured and unexciting enough that no one will be roused from sleep. “Let me know if you need anything. I can help you clean the wound, too; I’ve gotten lots of instruction on that kind of thing.”

Which is helpful and impressive, truly, but Daryl’s plenty used to just spitting on injuries and calling it handled. He won’t be asking for her assistance on that.

So Beth leaves him alone for the first time since they imprinted, shutting the white door softly, her gorgeous smile yet in place. At first, Daryl thinks that he’ll enjoy the time to decompress by himself—but once she’s out of sight, that expectation, in retrospect, becomes absolutely _laughable_.

His heartrate spikes up. Under his clenched knuckles, his palms get sweaty and cold. If he doesn’t pick out the sound of her pulse and footsteps—soft, hesitant, almost dainty—he thinks he might shriek out of his skull and rip the door off its hinges to see her again.

Yet somehow, he doesn’t. He just stands still, horror-struck and nearing panic in the silent bathroom, listening for her, and waiting until the swell of needy emotion passes.

While it never goes away, it _does_ become more manageable after acknowledging its existence—and denying its indulgence.

He swallows against a lick of terror in the back of his throat and wonders: _Is this how it’s gonna be from now on?_

But he knows the answer to that.

A moment later, he turns the knob on the shower to its highest setting and its coldest water. He lets the icy pressure beat against his back.

~|~

Beth sits cross-legged on her white, crocheted comforter and _sweats_.

Something about listening in to Daryl’s shower feels morally wrong. This doesn’t mean she’s going to _stop doing it_ , but the tinge of guilt is still there. More potently, however, is the overwhelmingly sense of wrongness that comes from leaving his presence, and the persistent worry that he’s going to bust out of the bathroom window and leave her forever—which is _ludicrous_ , because if she doesn’t have faith in her mate, she’s a sham of a mate herself.

So instead, she sits. She resists the urge to claw her way through her bedroom door, sprint down the hall, and race head-first into Daryl’s chest. She even resists the urge to move at all—if she flinches so much a centimeter, she doesn’t trust that she won’t go the rest of the way as well.

Only once she hears the shower turn off, and the cupboard door creak open, does Beth risk moving in order to quickly change into her pajamas.

And when Daryl enters the room again, Beth takes an obvious and deep breath of relief. She _would_ be embarrassed—but she noticed that when Daryl opened the door, he’d practically jerked it open, nearly hitting himself in the process. The sight of him is enough to send Beth bounding across the room, scrambling with bare feet to regain contact, connectedness, _anything_ to replace the horrible loneliness and desperation that came with having him gone.

In the back of her mind, Beth feels sorry for laughing at her sister and Glenn’s bouts of insecurity throughout their early imprinting.

She also distinctly notices, once her face is pressed to his sternum, that Daryl is shirtless.

Which is— _something_ , Beth supposes.

Her display of neediness makes Daryl laugh a little under his breath. His arms come up to frame Beth’s shoulders, gentle and reverent. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know. Me too.”

Beth is in love with how he speaks to her. She loves how he’s expressive, but only if you look close; she adores how his hands touch her, as though she’s the most precious creature to grace the earth, and as though he’s in awe and disbelief that he’s allowed to touch her, _be with her_ , for the rest of their lives.

She leans her head outwards to look up at him, and he runs a thumb across her cheek. When his touch halts, Beth can tell it’s stuttered, doubtful—as though he wants to do more, but won’t.

But he could. He _can_.

Beth rushes up to meet his lips, kissing him with as much adoration and earnestness as she thinks he deserves.

At first, Daryl is frozen. He doesn’t return the touch—he doesn’t even _breathe_. But within a moment, Beth feels his hands slide up to cup her face, fingertips grazing her pale hair and grip so incredibly _delicate_. He kisses her back, and the swell of relief at having him return her feelings has Beth gasping, taking in little sips of breath among the presses of their lips and gentle sweeps of their hands.

When they separate—only enough to breathe, to speak—Beth smiles as big as she can, whispering: “I’m so happy.”

Daryl’s eyes go so soft at that, and Beth almost shoves their faces back together again.

For all she’d dreamed of imprinting and finding her soul mate—fantasies of a dashing, charming werewolf all to herself, and her own presence in those daydreams as graceful, mature, and sexy—this clumsier, gentler reality is far better than she ever could have imagined.

Carefully, one of Daryl’s hands rise to run freshly clean, worshipful fingers through her hair.

“I want…” He says, and stops for a moment, as if looking for the words. Beth hardly cares what he says next; she’ll make sure he has it. He continues: “I wanna be careful with you. Go slow. All right?”

Beth’s next smile is tight, almost pained; it’s almost mortifying how easily Daryl makes her undone with the fewest words.

“Yeah,” she replies, hugging him tight. “There’s no rush. We have our whole lives.”

She takes him by the hand to bed. They tear the covers off, lying on the bared mattress in the hot Southern summer, fingers entwined and bodies close. Beth falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, perfect, even, and flawlessly matched with her own.

|epilogue|

Beth likes displays of affection. Daryl can tell she finds a certain kind of deep, possessive satisfaction in showing others that Daryl is _hers_ , from his hair to his heart.

If it’s up to Beth, she’ll hold Daryl’s hand everywhere, from the kitchen to trips into town—and when she first drags Daryl along on one of the Herschel pack trips to market, he’s admittedly nervous to be shoved into a crowd of humans; Beth’s hand-holding, then, is a lifeline of support.

But it’s not always that way. Daryl isn’t one for anything flashy or attention-grabbing. It’s one thing to enjoy one another’s company, obviously adore each other, and stick close—which is the nature of imprinting, really—and another thing completely to get grabby all the time, every time in front of people who have no business peeping in on their private relationship.

That’s how they have their first fight. Beth likes to display her affection; Daryl likes to keep it coveted, away from prying eyes.

“You have to get all handsy at the damn table?” Daryl asks her, whispering harshly, their faces close on the front porch. The rest of the pack is inside, continuing breakfast as if they _aren’t_ listening in on the couple’s bickering. “Toying with my hair and my clothes like I’m a fucking pup? In front of your daddy?”

Beth stands against him obstinately, body tense and eyes flashing in uncontrolled frustration. “I’m sorry,” she hisses, as insincere as apologies get. “Is it a _secret_ that you’re mine? What does it matter if I show it?”

“It matters.”

“You’re _embarrassed_.”

“Hell yeah I am,” he replies in a clumsy rush, his own wolf-eyes turning for a moment. “Embarrassed you’re putting on a show in front of your pack.”

“They’re yours too!”

“Yours first.”

“It’s not a _show_ ,” Beth says in a quiet snap, crossing her arms and pouting. “It’s _affection_. I love you, I wanna show it.”

“Well, show it later,” Daryl says, and turns back towards the door.

At his back, he hears Beth whisper angrily: “You’re _damn right_ I’ll show it later. Plenty.”

And all he can do is ignore her and think: _for fuck’s sake._

~|~

The first time they have sex, Beth is moved to tears.

The day is rainy, as muggy and sleepy as Southern humidity can get, and most of the pack is gone on a hunting trip. They left before the weather set in, and now, Beth imagines they’re all cooped up somewhere, curled in damp fuzzy balls on the soaked forest floor. While the weather won’t halt the hunt, it will make for some grumpy werewolves.

Beth and Daryl’s bond is still too new and unpredictable to rely on, so they hadn’t been permitted to go along. The last time they were in wolf form together, it had been incredible, freeing, and liberating—but also volatile, considering both of them had attacked any pack-mates who’d gotten too close to the other. As wolves, they were still far too single-minded.

Privately, Beth admits to Daryl that, as a wolf, she’d felt a deep desire to run away with him and start a new pack of their own. They both know she never will; her family is hers, and she’ll never leave them.

But in Daryl’s silent nod, Beth had seen that he’d felt it too.

So they spend the rainy day together in Beth’s room—now their shared space, new interior decorating reflecting that—as Daryl dozes and Beth reads. She’s propped up with a pillow at her back, and Daryl is lying down at her side.

As Daryl begins to wake up, Beth is nearly fifty pages into one of her old childhood favorites, _Because of Winn-Dixie_. It’s one of the human novels that had cemented Beth’s belief that, deep down, they were all the same—and if anything, humans were to be pitied for their lack of physical variety.

“Morning,” Beth says, cheerful and subdued, lowering a hand to push Daryl’s bedhead back. “Or, good afternoon.”

Daryl just grumbles. In private like this, he lets Beth touch him however she wants, quiet and content. He relaxes under her touch for a few seconds before craning up to look outside, seeming to check the light and weather for the time, and to catch his bearings.

“Do you want to eat?” Beth asks as he settles back down. He mumbles sleepily and shakes his head against her leg. “Or—do you want to read? I’ve got lots of books.”

At that, he tenses. He shakes his head again a moment later.

“Are you sure?” Beth asks. She wonders if he’s still reserved about using her things. Carefully, her hand resumes touching him, petting and fussing with his hair, in the hopes of relaxing him again. “Everything that’s mine is yours.”

Yet another grumble. Beth can tell he hasn’t let go of his tension when he mumbles out, terse: “Don’t wanna.”

Suddenly, her hand ceases its movements. Daryl stays still—like a man at the gallows waiting for the drop.

“Daryl,” Beth starts slowly, because she knows she has to be _so careful_ with this—“Can you…do you read at all?”

As Beth expected, Daryl’s tension immediately snaps into defensiveness. “I’m not _illiterate_ ,” he hisses out, pronouncing the last word sharply, to make a point. “But I already told you I wasn’t— _pampered_. Growing up.”

She knows he’s trying to lash out at her a bit, making a dig at her consistently stable pack life, but she pays no mind to it. Beth isn’t naïve to the commonly harder lives of her fellow kind; there’s just no point in getting defensive about something that she got luckywith. Instead she asks casually: “So you did learn?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he rushes in reply. But, because he simply can’t lie to her, he adds in: “Some.”

From what Beth knows of his upbringing, “some” is equivalent to _barely_.

Before she speaks again, Beth starts to touch him again, trying to convey in her hands how meaningless this news is in regards to her affection. Then, she says: “I’d like to teach you.”

“ _Teach_ me.”

“Yeah. If you let me.”

“You know how much _older_ I am?” Daryl grumbles out—but he doesn’t flinch out of her touch.

Beth frowns, but otherwise doesn’t stop her movements. “Why does that matter?”

Apparently, Daryl can’t be pushed to elaborate. Beth sighs under her breath; it’s mostly drowned out by rush of pouring rain.

“I know we’re different,” she says, voice soft in the hushed peace of their bedroom, her fingers tracing lines over Daryl’s scalp. “I _like_ that we’re different. It just means we have a lot to share and learn about each other. And I’m with you til the end, so…what I wanna say is, the only way you could possibly disappoint me, _ever_ , is if you don’t do something you want to just because you’re embarrassed, or scared.”

For a long while after that, neither of them says a word. Beth keeps petting him, unwilling to cut off contact—and she thinks the topic is dropped until Daryl shifts, turns into her touch, and presses his head against her leg lazily, relaxed once more.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Sure,” Beth responds, a bright smile growing on her face. “For now—can I read to you? This one’s an old favorite.”

Daryl grumbles again, but it’s content, drowsy, and yielding.

Later, when she’s tired of talking and her mouth is dry, Beth wriggles down to lie next to him on the bed. She kisses him slowly, letting her hands graze his face and neck; Daryl returns her touches with tenderness, as soft and gentle with her as he always is.

Their progression from light pecks to heavy, drawn out kisses feels easy, gradual. When Beth loops a leg over Daryl’s, and he matches her advance by rolling on top and settling between her thighs, it’s simply _right_ , unquestionable and perfect for the moment.

Perhaps the only thing to surprise Beth about her first time is that it happens without any dramatic revelations, nervousness, or fanfare. She only really registers that she’s no longer a virgin once it’s over, and she’s lying against Daryl’s chest, flushed pink, utterly satisfied, and still gasping for breath. For some reason she cannot fathom, lying with Daryl is natural, organic; it’s like, for the first time, she’s utterly comfortable in her own skin.

So, despite the rightness of it all, Beth cries.

She never thought she could be so happy.

**Author's Note:**

> pure cutesy fluff.
> 
> this commission was pretty difficult. I wanted to make things more interpersonal-driven and dialogue-based, but I'm not THAT familiar with the Walking Dead; I've watched plenty of it, but I'm not really an active or even lurking member of the fandom. I'd only watched the show as a casual, solo pastime--so I can tell you that I definitely never expected to write fic for it.
> 
> but then I was approached to do a cute Beth/Daryl thing, and I thought, hmm, am I even qualified for this? will I be able to make something worthwhile? and then my commissioner was like "I'd like it to have werewolves" and I was sold.
> 
> I'm a sucker for werewolves.
> 
> if you liked this, please leave a comment and ABSOLUTELY thank Ensign_conners for making this happen (and letting me share w/ you all). hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Email me 'bout it: [ commissionpanda@gmail.com ]


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